


Worship to the Beat

by GhoulsnHalos (Morgawse)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Beefcake!Cas, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Stripper Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26698741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgawse/pseuds/GhoulsnHalos
Summary: Trying to forget his troubles for one night, Dean seeks out two of the three Bs (booze and babes) at one of his favorite strip joints. There's a new guy on stage who catches his eye, and Dean stays in "Angel's" corner for the rest of the night. He tries to remind himself Angel is just putting on a show for pay, but it feels like chemistry between them.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: The AO3 SPN Kink Meme





	Worship to the Beat

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [theao3spnkinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/theao3spnkinkmeme) collection. 



> Happy for this to be de-anoned!
> 
> I hope that this is close to what the OP envisioned with their prompt. It was certainly a fun one to write! Just to be clear this is not canon!Dean. In this universe, Sam stayed at college and Dean presumed that John died on a hunt when he went missing for so long. Dean gave up hunting after that to help support Sam through school.
> 
> Hopefully I've caught all the typos, spelling and grammar issues. Sorry if any squeaked through, hopefully they won't prevent you from enjoying the story.

Dean turns up Baby’s heater. He really shouldn’t be out of the house tonight. It should be noodles and Netflix. He’s on earlies tomorrow — promised he’d open the shop. He’s been in the shop under cars or logging inventory six out seven days a week for…Dean’s no idea really, it’s been months. With that and the second job at the bar on the corner three nights a week, getting up at the ass-crack of dawn is becoming harder and harder.

Maybe bringing the Impala was a bad idea. He can’t get fucked up on anything, or too drunk if he’s got the car. But hell, it is way too cold to walk. Who the fuck walks distances around here anyway? He hates cabs. Too much of a control freak to let some stranger drive him around. So, here he is driving aimlessly. The stereo cranked up as loud as it will go. The bass is reverberating around the car. It’s so loud that the car next to him and the people on the sidewalk will be able to hear the driving riff of Black Dog, if not be able to hear Robert Plant.

If he can’t get blind drunk or take anything else to ease the tension and make him forget what a shitty patch he’s going through, then what is it he needs tonight? Simply driving and playing obnoxiously loud music isn’t enough. The idea of hitting the highway isn’t appealing for some reason. So, he’s staying in town and driving sensibly. What the hell can he do then that keeps him warm and legal, yet satisfies that itch? That restlessness eating away at him. Babes! Mostly naked babes - live and dancing just for him. Even if there are plenty of other dudes in the room, Dean always imagines their hips are gyrating just for him.

Dean pulls over for a second to get his bearings. To figure out what part of town he’s in. He’s in the wrong part of the city for what he wants. Baby stands out here — in the worst kind of way. This isn’t some plastic six-figure coupe or SUV with tinted windows. Dean could never be that man on the opposite sidewalk. The guy is hunched into his cashmere overcoat, arm protectively wrapped around his partner’s waist, whispering in her ear, sharing secrets, dreams and life together. Those aren’t the cards that life has dealt Dean. To be fair, it’s not one he wants either. Not really. He’d be bored. In that kind of stable relationship. Why stick with only raspberry when there’s a whole variety of flavours to try?

He knows where he needs to be tonight. He still has no idea what specifically he wants when he gets there. Who cares? Not Dean. He shifts the car back into drive and heads off for “The Anything Goes” district — the place where anyone can get anything if they have the money. Dean doesn’t, but tonight he doesn’t give a flying fuck. He’ll panic when he and Sam can’t make the rent again in two weeks.

As he gets closer, Dean swears he can smell it leaking through Baby’s air vents. The air is thick with the smell of sleaze: sweat, drugs, tobacco, alcohol, and cheap, tacky, dirty sex. God, he loves this part of town. Providing he steers well clear of the third B they sell around here – the other love of his life. Burgers, duh! Even Dean Winchester has his limits when it comes to food.

Luck isn’t on his side, and Dean doesn’t find a space in the bar’s parking lot. Dean cruises the side streets for a safe place for his Baby. As he locks her, he pats his pocket checking that he’s got his wallet. Not that there’s anything in there. He passed an ATM on his hunt for a parking spot. He can raid what’s left in his bank account and worry about paying for everything else until payday on the credit card later.

Brandi’s is one of the few places with no cover. You walk in off the street. Plant your ass down at a table or at the bar, settle in and watch the shows. Not like Dean doesn’t know the routine in here. He used to know the owner before Earl ran it into the ground and sold it. Not much has changed really. It’s still a shitty-ass strip joint for blue-collar schmoes without a pot to piss in. Dean hasn’t gone anywhere else since the sale because the one thing that has changed is the thing that counts in a place like this. The dancers are hotter and better at their job.

He sits at the bar picking absentmindedly at the label. Charlie would tell him that’s a sign of sexual frustration. Dean Winchester sexually frustrated – as if! Uh, come to think of it, imaginary Charlie might have a point. If it weren’t for his tab full of bookmarked videos, a bottle of lube, and his right hand Dean would be blue balling it. He sighs. Another checkmark for the crappy life of a mechanic with only a GED to his name and a smart-ass, whiny little bitch of a brother to put through college. It’s not been as long since he had a hook-up as it’s been since he had any proper down-time, but it’s a close-run thing.

Dean peers over his shoulder at the main stage. He can take or leave what he sees. He cranes his neck to see the one at the back corner. He can’t get a proper look at what’s going on, but there are more people gathered around there than watching the main show.

“Another?” the bartender offers as he happens to be passing at the right time.

Dean nods and slaps a few bills on the bar to settle up for the three beers. If he’s going to scratch the itch, he’s putting money on it being at the corner stage tonight.

A cute redhead is on stage when he gets to a place he can see properly. Dean hangs back to watch. She’s good. Certainly worth coming over to see. Unfortunately for Dean, she’s also most of the way through her routine. No point in muscling his way to the front. From where he is, he’s got a reasonable view of the main stage. He’ll flip a coin to decide what do. He can simply stay here and watch whoever is up next, or he can hang here and see who’s up next on both stages, then decide.

“Angel to the rear stage. Angel to the rear stage.”

Dean recognises the burly guy next to him having seen him several times before. He is one of the crew watching out to see which pervert can’t remember the simple ‘no touching rule’. Dean’s hearing the staff radio.

“Angel? Not seen her before, but then it’s been a while. What’s she like? Say compared to…” Dean jerks his head at the stage in front of them.

“Thought I hadn’t seen your face around here in ages! Oh, Angel has been here a few weeks now. You’ll love Angel. Wait and see.” Bouncer guy winks at Dean, then strolls off to the other side of the audience where a dude is getting handsy with one of the wait-staff.

That makes Dean’s mind up. The rear stage. See what all the fuss is about this Angel. As the redhead leaves the stage, a few people make their way back to the bar. Dean swoops in on one of the gaps, then not so subtly elbows his way through the rest of the way to a prime spot next to the stage. What’s strange is that…hold on! The bouncer isn’t messing with him, is he?

Dean doesn’t have time to consider what the wink plus the lack of grumbling from other men as he forced his way to the front means. Good start – AC/DC. He’d know the opening strains to ‘Are You Ready’ anywhere. He reaches into his pocket.

Those are boots. Motorcycle boots. Not the platform stilettos he’d been expecting. Dean looks up. His jaw drops open at the sight standing centre stage. His eye travels up the thick muscular legs encased in leather. Angel is tapping his hands on them. Dean’s gaze roves over the taught stomach. It’s not a bodybuilder six-pack, but there’s not an ounce of spare flesh. Dean’s hand instinctively pokes at the softness of his own middle – hey that’s why that dude’s up there and Dean’s not!

Dean’s eyes continue up to the defined pecs, the wide shoulders that when Angel turns around is going to give him a narrow waist.

Dean is salivating and he hasn’t even got a glimpse of Angel’s face. He’s never been that bothered by what bits anyone has. Guys, gals – it’s all good so long as they do something for him. Angel isn’t the first man that’s had Dean shifting slightly in his seat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees a flurry of activity. He doesn’t pay it any attention. He’s too interested to see how Angel…um…dear God! Can someone change the lighting? The filter’s off. That or Angel is wearing contacts. No-one’s eyes are that impossibly Caribbean Ocean blue.

Dean has to wait for his brain to reboot before he’s capable of any further conscious thought.

What brings him back online is the screeching coming from beside him. That racket? A bunch of women on a bachelorette night.

Angel winks at them, his fingers no longer hooked into his waistband. Those long fingers are now cupping his crotch.

Oh, hell no! Dean’s not standing for that. They can’t have him. Dean came here to have a good time. A night to forget. Angel looks like he was created exactly the right way to make Dean forget and he wants all the dancer’s attention for himself. Sure, it’s a dick move, but he’s not subtle about showing the cash he’s got in his hand. He leans as far forward as he dares towards the rail making sure Angel knows he’s into it, as much if not more so than the ladies.

At the second run-through of the riff, Angel moves, snapping his hips to different angles with each pulse of the bass. He turns. The movement is fluid in a way that seems out of place with the rhythm on one hand, yet it holds Dean entranced. Angel swings his hips round in an exaggerated circle, before snaking his whole body and lifting both arms in the air. Wings. The whole of his back and down his arms are tattooed to look like wings. With his arms outstretched, the span is impressive.

The song starts to fade into the background. The beats that Dean knows so well are no more than markers for the next big move that’s going to keep all eyes trained on Angel.

Hip wiggle. Back arch, sticking his ass out perfectly.

Angel smoulders as he looks over his shoulder. Cleverly his gaze is aimed between Dean and the screaming women. Spin, turn, full bend, touch the ground. With three perfectly timed strides, Angel crosses the stage.

Without looking down, Dean thumbs a few bills from his pile.

Legs in the air, kick, drop, twist. Angel hits the floor. He’s angled slightly towards the whooping coming from Dean’s right, his head thrown back. He lingers like that for longer than is strictly necessary, thrusting his hips in time with the rhythm. When Angel finally rights himself, he turns away from the party, kneeling up with his back to the crowd again.

Dean can’t help but watch the way Angel’s back muscles move making the tattoo feathers look like they are real feather’s fluttering with every wing motion. Good job that angels are real, eh? Angel pushes a hand through his open legs and slaps his backside. Rising to his feet, he…well the only word for it is…he sashays to the bachelorette party. He crouches in front of them for a moment, close enough that the brave ones can tuck money into his waistband.

Dean swallows the unbelievable feeling of jealousy. When does he get his turn?

Suddenly Angel jumps to his feet again, dancing like he’s now the one losing himself in the music. His hands run over the exposed flesh of his torso, letting everyone know Angel is fucking hot stuff. Whoo boy, is he! Only, Dean can’t dismiss the impression that instead of the short nails he’d expect on a man like Angel the stripper has claws. He’s always loved the feel of a woman’s long nails scratching down his back. Imagine what Angel could do with those things? But no, Dean’s a hunter…ok ex-hunter…and unless those are impressive stage props, Angel is what he used to hunt.

Dean drags his attention back to Angel’s pecs. All thoughts of hunters versus monster disappear immediately. Oh Lord, Dean NEEDS to run his hands down Angel’s chest, maybe pause for a few seconds and rub those nipples between his fingers.

With the next shift of the music, Angel drops to his knees spreading his legs wide as he arches his back like a cat. It’s almost too perfectly feline. The movement draws Dean back from fantasy to what is happening on the stage.

Angel begins to crawl, moving his shoulders slowly to the beat and swinging his hips to show off his ass in the tight leather pants. A leopard stalking its prey.

Dean holds his breath. Is he about to get his turn? Dean forgets to breathe out as Angel inches closer and closer to him.

Angel reaches the edge of the stage then flips onto his back right in front of Dean, head tilted back over the stage railing.

Dean exhales. His eyes locked with Angel’s impossibly blue ones.

“Main stage in an hour — all the goods,” Angel tells Dean.

It’s difficult to read facial expressions when the person’s face is upside down, but Dean swears that Angel arched an eyebrow in challenge. No doubt it’s a practised art to get more tips. Kudos to the guy, it’s working on Dean. Except…Dean stops that ridiculous train of thought before it can leave the station.

He slips a few bills between the dancer’s teeth with the barest of nods. He’s going to be there with bells on. Whoever is on stage between now and then is shit out of luck. Because every dollar in Dean’s pocket that doesn’t go on another couple of beers needs to be ready for the raven-haired dancer with the intense forget-me-not blue eyes and the oval pupils. Huh? Those are definitely contacts…or? Dean hasn’t thought about anything like this since John died and Dean gave up hunting to support Sammy. Dean ignores the truth that’s becoming glaringly obvious – Angel is a shifter.

After collecting the rest of his tips, Angel struts off the stage. Dean knows his aren’t the only pair of eyes glued to the round buttocks that he just wants to…too much leather pant — not enough flesh. Oh, Dean gets the ‘leave them wanting more’ thing. Give the crowd enough to hook them in, hint that there’s more ‘good’ stuff’ to be uncovered and they’ll be flocking to the main stage waiting to see what’s been hidden.

Dean finds himself back at the bar, another bottle in hand. He probably shouldn’t, Baby’s out there waiting for him. But he isn’t going to order a soda. He’ll just have to sip it slowly, make it last. Idjit! At the bar he’ll have to wait for any formal announcement over the PA. If he waits until he hears any formal announcement that Angel is about to take the stage, he might not be able to grab a spot at the front.

By the time the announcement comes, Dean has already secured himself space at the front, a smidge to the left of centre. Now he knows what’s coming, his cash is already in his hands ready to go.

As the music starts, Dean’s about to have his second aneurism of the evening. Angel has gone full ‘Officer and a Gentleman’, even down to the peaked cap under his arm. The only piece missing is the music, thankfully. Angel’s choice is so much more suited to him. It’s rough and dirty with a grinding rhythm. Nine Inch Nails isn’t Dean’s kind of thing, but Closer’s a classic stripper song, so long as you don’t listen too closely to the lyrics.

Much to the obvious annoyance of the party on the other side of the stage, the first thing Angel does is shoot the cap across the stage, so it comes to rest right in front of Dean.

Other than a childlike compulsion to stick his tongue out at the hand on hips pouting brigade, Dean thinks nothing of it. His eyes are firmly…so very firmly fixed on Angel’s movements, because if he understood the guy — everything is coming off. Well, full nudity isn’t allowed in Kansas, so there will be something left on, but Dean is praying fervently that it leaves NOTHING to the imagination.

As the music winds its way to a stop, Angel spins away from the crowd. One final time he spreads his wings. With perfect timing, he smirks over his shoulder. Dean swears Angel directed the smirk at him. Then Angel tips at the waist, grabbing the hems of his white dress pants and whips them off.

The place bursts into frenzied whoops and hollers for Angel to turn around.

Dean doesn’t join in. Not because he has too much dignity. No, because he is mesmerised by the tiny azure blue shiny briefs, that aren’t much that aren’t doing any more than a thong would to hold Angel’s tight buttocks in place.

When Angel turns around, it’s only to collect his clothing. The cap is left for last. He crouches in front of Dean, unnecessarily close. Dean can feel the heat radiating off him. If Angel shook his head now, Dean would be right in the sweaty firing line. Luckily for Dean, Angel doesn’t.

Dean tries to read the look on the stripper’s face. He’s not giving anything of himself away with it. Angel is trying to read Dean the way, Dean’s trying to read him. Dean feels the piercing gaze shoot straight to the very essence of his being.

Holy motherfucking shitballs! As Angel withdraws his hand taking Dean’s money with him, Dean feels a slip of paper still pressed into his palm. It’s smaller than money and it feels different too. It could be a scrap of paper from a notepad or book. Dean’s heart pounds. He can’t look at whatever it is straight away. He’d bet money he doesn’t have on it being deliberate – a note from Angel. If he looks at it now and security is watching him, they are bound to want to know what it is. Brandi’s may be an easy-going place. That is why it’s his favourite. Nevertheless, they maintain the no fraternising rules as much as the no touching ones. He won’t risk getting Angel into trouble.

A quick trip to the restroom. Not like that’s unusual for guys at the end of a show like that. Dean scurries…no scratch that…Dean strides manfully to the restroom. To avoid looking like a creep, he bolts into one of the stalls.

“Hah! Yessssssssss!” The words erupt from his mouth before he can stop them. Thankfully, no-one else sees the fist-pump that goes with the exclamation. It’s not exactly what he wanted but give Angel credit he knows a sucker when he sees one. Dean isn’t about to deny the neon sign flashing above his head. If Angel is working private dances from now until close then, yes, Dean will be paying for one. Who could blame him? Another chance to get up close to the divine creature who, for now, appears to live up to his stage name. It’s is stupidly reckless, an ex-hunter being that close and personal alone in a room with something he used to hunt, but for now it’s just Dean’s suspicions. He can work with that. What are the odds the guy is trying to survive like Dean, not chow down on his client’s the second he gets them alone? Dean can’t remember ever knowing a shifter that didn’t turn out to be bad news, but oh god does he want more of Angel. It’s just a dance, right?

As nonchalantly as possible for a guy that’s followed Angel’s shows around like a lost puppy all night, he requests his session with Angel. Dean’s luck is in, Angel’s next slot is open. He hands over his credit card without batting an eyelid. He should but…a man can survive on 30cent noodles for a couple of weeks…can’t he? The no touching rule applies in these rooms too, apparently. Dean nods that he understands. Then the cashier directs Dean to one of the small private rooms, telling him to wait there for Angel.

In all the time he’s come here, he’s never paid for a private dance before. The room is functional. In the most clichéd way possible, there are dispensers with sanitizer and paper towels in the corner. Dean’s germaphobia kicks in. His stomach turns queasy at the thought of other men losing control and…well…you know.

In contrast to the confident creature on the stage, the man that walks in through the performer door looks drawn and haggard. Angel tries to school it well when he spots Dean and slips back into the polished mask of a seasoned performer.

However, it is too late. Part of Dean wants to turn tail, make sure the guy gets his money and give him an easy night. After all, he’s danced twice and he’s now doing privates until close. Dean had assumed that meant he loved his job. That he was one of those dancers that chose the life because…because…well anyway, Dean’s heard some people love taking their clothes off for a living. But the other part of Dean is nurturing the fledgeling hope that Angel didn’t see him as dollar bills. There was an undercurrent of something. A charge between them whenever Angel came close. Dean is certain of it and he’s not drunk only a little buzzed. So, it isn’t the booze telling him that Angel is interested in Dean the man and not what is in his wallet. 

“So what’ll it be? Any music preference?”

Before he can engage his brain and answer the question, Dean blurts, “You sure you’re ok? I mean…uh…shit…I…um”

“I think the phrase you’re searching for is that I look like death warmed up.”

Ouch! Dean hadn’t meant to insult the guy. But it is true. He does look like crap.

“I wasn’t going to…”

Angel holds a hand up for Dean to stop. “You were and we both know it. Music? You got a preference. I’ve got a broad enough selection for most tastes.”

Apparently, Dean’s mouth is now on autopilot and completely disengaged from either of his brains.

“You don’t have to…dance that is. Not if you’re not up to it.”

Dean stays close to the door like he wants to edge out of it leave this version of Angel and keep the memory of the cocky confident dancer intact for…well…you know…later when Dean’s alone at home.

Angel cocks his head to one side, his brow furrowed like he doesn’t understand what Dean just said.

“Dancing. Stripping. It’s kind of what I do. This is a strip joint after all – it’s sort of in the name don’t you think?”

Cheeky bastard. Dean would let it drop if it wasn’t for the grey tinge to Angel’s complexion he can see under the make-up now that they’re away from the glare of the stage lighting. If it wasn’t that Angel had been giving him the come-on from the stage, Dean would walk away. Like he knows he should, money be damned. Angel can keep his cut of that. Something tells Dean Angel needs the money as much as Dean can’t afford to spend it on a private dance. He feels bad about even thinking the shifter might be out for his blood — almost.

“You don’t look ok, dude. I wouldn’t feel right if I felt like I was forcing you to dance when you’re sick.”

“I…uh well…I’m fine,” Angel asserts. “and we really shouldn’t be talking…you’ve paid for me to…” Angel sweeps a hand through his already messy hair.

“It’s cool, man.” It isn’t because Dean wants what Angel’s got pressed close enough that even though they won’t be touching, he’ll feel the other man’s body heat. “I know it’s prying but…”

“Why am I doing this? Paying my way through grad school without even having a TA position.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s rough. I’m covering my brother’s expenses while he’s at school too – gonna be a big shot lawyer that one.” Something about the way that Angel’s holding himself, finger still poised over the play button on the speaker tells Dean that school isn’t the only reason for Angel dancing. But hey, he doesn’t do chick flick shit, so he isn’t gonna pry. He also doesn’t wanna get into the whole ‘not human’ piece either. Like feelings and emotions he can shove that sucker down and bury it deep. The last thing Angel looks like he needs is worrying about having hunters on his ass.

Angel walks towards him. His head down, shoulders drooping. There’s still no music. When he’s closed the gap between them, Angel huffs out a sharp breath.

“I’ll get the duty manager to refund you.”

“Nah, I’m good. You need it more than me.” Liar, liar, liar. But he can’t bring himself to take money out of the guy’s hand. Not when he knows how much grad school must be costing and then this other thing Angel isn’t telling.

“But you paid for a dance and I’m not dancing.”

“We still got a few minutes – how about you tell me what else is bothering you.” He has no idea where the fuck that came from. Since when did Dean become Dr Phil – that’s Sam’s job?

“Then I’d feel like I’d need to pay you for listening,” Angel retorts his tone tinged with sarcasm.

It’s the first time since Dean walked into the room that he sees some of the spark that Angel has on stage. Dean shrugs. Angel didn’t deny there was more. Dean won’t feel right making the guy do this if he isn’t into it. As much of a hedonist as he is, Dean’s not a complete asshole.

“Look, I ain’t saying I don’t want a dance, but it feels hinky knowing you aren’t into it. Shit’s bothering you so talk.”

A smirk lights up Angel’s tired features, “Oh with you, I’d be into it. Look, we both know it isn’t your business. But thanks for the offer.” The grin disappears as quickly as it had appeared.

“I’m gonna sit here until time’s up, so…” Woah, Winchester! Way too invested in a guy you’ve seen shake his hips at you twice, for what - three minutes at a time. “…spill.”

Angel quickly crosses back to the sound system, shaking his head. His hand goes back to hovering over the play button.

Dean wants to believe Angel feels the spark too. That he will tell Dean what’s bothering him. At least that way, Dean can pretend for a few minutes that there’s more to it than dollar bills.

Angel keeps his back turned to Dean, “My father ruined the family business and left us with crippling debt when he died. Even selling all the family assets hasn’t cleared what he owes. Only one of my brothers, Michael, and I can do anything about paying off the creditors. So, here I am…uh…I…really shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Oh…um…it’s ok.” It’s a useless thing to say. Crap there’s a whole family of shifters out there? What the hell does he do with that new piece of information? For a split second, Dean wishes he were Sammy. His brother would know the right thing to say and do in the situation. Instead he mumbles a, “Shit, sorry dude. Yeah, you totally need to keep my money.”

Angel spins back to face him. There’s a flash of anger in his eyes. Hurt pride maybe? It’s gone instantly. “I have another idea. One that might make both of us feel better about this train wreck.”

“Go on.” Dean’s all ears.

“If I tell Garth that there was a problem with the sound. Seeing as I spent so long hovering here at the deck it’ll be believable. I can sweet-talk him into letting you have another session – my last of the night. I’ll get my shit together and give you the dance you paid for. Could you hang around until…”

Dean doesn’t give Angel the chance to finish.

“Yes. Sure. Not gonna lie, Angel. I want that dance.”

Dean stands up to leave. When his hand is on the door handle, Angel says, “Great. Go confirm it at the bar with Garth in fifteen.”

Dean does as he’s told. Forty-five minutes and another two beers with whisky chasers later Dean is back in the same room waiting for Angel. He’s so going to have to leave Baby here for the night. But the additional buzz helps him forget every hunter alarm bell going off at being alone in a club afterhours with a monster. His only weapon the small knife in his boot. Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long for the dancer.

Angel is hardly through the door to the room when he informs Dean, “The camera is off. No-one’s monitoring this…and I have a set of keys to lock up after me.”

“Huh?” Eloquent as ever, Winchester. Brain kindly recalibrate to speech capability, not Neanderthal grunting.

“We can...take our time with this.” Angel’s tongue darts out and licks slowly across his bottom lip. He drops the bag and clothes he’s carrying onto the floor by the sound system.

Dean’s brain is not going to cooperate. Instead, he’s drooling.

Angel is bare-chested, the wing tattoo on full display. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, unfastened at the waist and ripped at the knees. His feet are bare.

Dean swears that his pants are already tighter, like some virginal schoolboy on prom night, at the sight let alone the thought of what Angel’s insinuating.

Dean leans back in the chair in anticipation, spreading his legs wide.

“As this is…well kind of off the record, so to speak…I brought along a little helper.” Angel holds up a bottle of Jack.

Dean knows his eyes light up at the thought of more bourbon and the delectable Angel in his lap. He shouldn’t drink anymore. Although with the number of beers he’s had, he’s already accepted he’s not driving home. So, what the heck? If his number’s up and the shifter is going to gank him, instead of it being the other way around, maybe being drunk will help.

Finally, his mouth engages, “sounds good to me, Angel.”

“Castiel…uh…fuck…”

Dean winks and smiles smugly. “Yeah, I know. That’s off the record too. I got it, Cas.”

Castiel pours two generous shots, then hands one to Dean. He knocks his back in one and pours himself another.

“Shall we try this from the top again?” Cas doesn’t wait for an answer. He shimmies out of the jeans and adds them to the pile of clothing. “I’m gonna choose the music, ok. I think I know just the right track.”

Dean will deny it to his dying day, but he knows he’s devouring every inch of Cas. Instinctively he’s licking his lips as though Cas were one of Ellen’s bacon double cheeseburgers with a slice of her cherry pie for dessert.

The singing starts instantly, no intro:

_“I’m not the one who’s so far away. When I feel the snakebite enter my veins. Never did I wanna be here again, and I don’t remember why I came.”_

Woah, after the ACDC barnstormer, Cas’s gone all industrial, grungy sounding with the tunes. Dean has no idea who the band is or the song, but man does it do wonders for the way that Cas’s hips sway from side to side as he approaches Dean. He straddles Dean’s legs. From how he’s positioned, it wouldn’t take much for Cas to lower himself so he’s sitting in Dean’s lap.

Dean can’t wait to feel Cas’s weight on his thighs. The blood in his body all appears to be heading south, rapidly. Dean grips the sides of the chair. If he doesn’t, he won’t be able to keep his hands off Cas. 

“The…the…no touching thing?”

Cas cocks his head to the right. “You want to? Touch me, that is?”

“Yes. Please,” Dean pleads softly.

Oh, that peal of laughter. It sends shivers down Dean’s spine as Cas throws his head back amused at Dean’s almost begging tone.

“As you wish, er…”

“Dean.”

“Ok, Dean.”

Dean’s hands fly of their own accord to hold Cas’s hips. He holds him gently, giving Cas plenty of latitude to move them however he wants.

Cas chooses that moment to arch forward, his chest so close to Dean’s only a piece of paper could slide between them. Those blue eyes are darker now. No denying that Cas isn’t wearing contacts and that his pupils are shaped like a cat’s. There’s a hunger in them that maybe shouldn’t be there. Even a couple of sheets to the wind Dean knows the difference between bloodlust and lust in anyone’s eyes. Cas’s are full of lust. Dean can guarantee from the straining bulge in his jeans that his pupils will also be dilated.

Cas sinks slowly, humming along to the song as he settles comfortably into Dean’s lap. Cas lowers his arms around Dean’s neck, using him as support as he leans back.

Without thinking, Dean settles a hand on the centre of Cas’s back. He imagines that there are soft, downy feathers there that he can entwine his fingers in. Dean resists the urge to fan the fingers out and stroke. For a fraction of a second, he wonders if the tattoo shows up in Cas’s fur when he shifts. Unbidden a moan slips past his lips at all the enticing images racing through his brain and the feel of Cas under his hands. Risking a move that might end the dance, Dean adds a little pressure to his hold on Cas, pulling him in closer.

Cas let’s more of his weight fall on Dean. Leaning, pressing into him so close that Dean feels the puff of Cas’s breath on his neck.

“Fuck…fu…” Dean bites down on his lip. If he doesn’t, he’s going to start licking, or worse kissing, along Cas’s jawline.

Cas pulls back. But it’s only by a hair’s breadth, so they’re still breathing the same air.

Dean’s cock is throbbing. It’s become so needy so quickly it’s ridiculous, but he can’t help it. He can feel how thick Cas is. Dean desperately has to get his hands or his mouth on it. He’d pay double what he’s already done just to…

Cas rolls his hips down. It’s his turn to keen at the delicious rub of their hard cocks.

Dean takes that as the green light and thrusts upwards. Dean’s rewarded with another show of how flexible Cas is when his back bows away from Dean while he drops one hand between them, grabbing hold of Dean’s belt buckle so he can rut against him like Cas is riding the mechanical bull in the dive bar next door. Dean uses what little rational thought capacity he has to ponder the benefits of having a boyfriend with the liquid flexibility of a cat. He banishes the thought as fast as it appeared. Cas would never be Dean’s boyfriend.

“Nghh...” Dean’s voice is husky, laced with lust. He keeps his thrusts in time with the roll of Cas’s hips. The momentum kicking up several notches.

They’re breaking almost every rule. No matter if Cas says this isn’t going to be in the official club records, Dean’s not foolish enough to think he can’t get in trouble for this. He doubts that there are rules against Cas getting his rocks off. But Dean could be banned if someone finds out.

“D…eea…an…” Cas’s gravelly voice comes out in breathy pants.

The sound has Dean’s cock twitching again, painfully obvious even through the layers of his boxers and his jeans.

“Are you… we… meant to do this?”

“That’s why there’s no footage of this – just you and me in a room together Dean. You want to stop?” The velvet rumbles of Cas’s voice should come with a health warning.

“Not at all.” Dean slides his hands down to Cas’s ass. He squeezes, pulling him in tight bucking his hips up, rutting against Cas. “Fuck…No, I don’t want to stop.”

“Good.” Cas leans down and captures Dean’s mouth in a sudden kiss.

Dean kisses back. He’s acting without thinking, but the second Cas’s lips touch his, he knows he can’t possibly stop this whole thing now. He’s got enough awareness to know they should stop, despite Cas’s assurances that no one is going to be monitoring what’s going on between them.

They only stop when Dean has to come up for air.

“Fuck, Cas!” is all Dean can manage before Cas is yanking Dean’s jeans with both hands drawing him back in for another kiss.

Dean goes willingly, his body erupting in goosebumps. The good kind. Cas’s mouth is hot, and his tongue is doing things that to say they make Dean shiver on top of the goosebumps doesn’t do Cas justice. Finally, Cas pulls back far enough to breathe.

How in all that is unholy is Cas looking so composed? Dean’s lost any semblance of self-control. He knows what he wants, and if Cas is willing to give it, then Dean will take it – all of it.

Cas’s hand hovers above Dean’s belt buckle. His eyes flick up from under his lashes, seeking permission.

“Shit, Cas, I want you so much. You want me to beg?” Dean asks with a playful smirk.

Cas beams a gummy smile at him, shaking his head as he slowly eases himself off Dean’s lap.

“Couch?”

That piece of furniture is more questionably filthy than the chair Dean is sitting on.

“I don’t usually do this. Any of this,” Cas begins to ramble his words tripping over each other. “It was a spur of the moment thing when you weren’t the same as the other assbutts. You were willing to let it slide because I wasn’t…”

Dean chuckles. “Too much talking Cas – of the wrong sort!”

“Right, yes. Um…where were we? Ah…lube. Shit…”

Dean would go with _#spitaslube_ for any other unprepared quick and dirty handjob. With Cas, for some reason, that won’t do at all. There has to be a packet around the club somewhere – the place is made for quickies so long as it’s not with the talent. Uh newsflash Dean-o, his upstairs brain kicks in, you are with the talent! The monster talent at that! The fact that the song Cas started to dance to is on repeat gives an added kick of reality to the reminder.

Cas comes to the rescue. “My duffle. I keep a bottle in one of the side pockets for when I travel.”

Cas rolls off the couch and rushes over to the corner where he dumped his street clothes and bag.

Dean takes the opportunity to languidly stroke himself. Making sure little Dean stays in the game.

If he stopped to think about it, Dean would be flattered that Cas doesn’t waste time changing the music. This might be worth having to find another favourite strip joint over.

In contrast to his departure, Cas’s return to the couch is all manner of sexy. There’s a genuineness to the feline slink that wasn’t there before. If Dean wasn’t already completely sold on the idea of getting more intimate with Cas, that shift into authenticity would clinch the deal.

Cas sits on the couch slotting in beside Dean like they were always meant to fit together. Two halves of an image that create something exquisite when joined together.

Dean reaches out to touch Cas, to cup the back of his head. He nips at Cas’s jaw, licks down the cord of muscle on the side of his neck. He savours the little whimpers that escape Cas’s lips, the tiny spasms of his muscles when Dean hits an especially sensitive spot with his teeth or his tongue.

Cas starts to turn and slide down the couch.

Instinctively Dean gets the message. He lies down too, facing Cas. He’s praying that he doesn’t push Cas off the couch because it isn’t really wide enough for two well-built men. But he’s going to follow where Cas leads.

Suddenly Dean’s hyper-aware of their breathing. They’re panting hard, rutting against each other and letting little desperate noises escape.

“More," Cas whines softly in Dean's ear, wrapping his hand around both shafts and stroking. His strokes are slow, steady.

"Gorgeous," Dean murmurs as Cas thrusts up into his hand, throws his head back, and moans. Dean pauses for a heartbeat to revel in the sound, then he continues, "I didn’t dare to imagine this when I first saw you take the stage. But Lord I knew I wanted more than I thought I could have," he tells Cas.

Cas leans his head against Dean's shoulder, his fingers deftly playing with the slit of Dean’s cock. "Good as you imagined?" he gasps.

Dean huffs against Cas’s ear, tracing the edge with his tongue. "I do have a very good imagination," he replies. "But I believe you are equal to the challenge."

Cas ups his rhythm getting them both bucking up into the touch. He’s got all the moves, the twists, the flicks, the changes in grip. It’s driving Dean over the edge. Cas can’t be far off either with the way his body’s writhing and his breathing is becoming increasingly laboured.

In the cheap pornos and the cheesy romances, Dean most definitely doesn’t read, they’d climax together with shooting stars, choirs of angels singing, and brilliant white light blinding them. In real life, Dean stills as he knows it’s coming. Then his body shudders and white ropes shoot out over Cas’s hands.

He tries to get Cas to let Dean bring him to a finish, but Cas bats his hand away. He does, however, maintain eye contact staring deep into the abyss of everything Dean doesn’t want to show the world. With a few more deft strokes and twists, Cas orgasms. The moment passes, leaving them leaning against one another as they attempt to steady their breathing.

In the awkward moments that follow with only _“…feeling, breathe in, breathe in. I’m coming back again…”_ breaking what would be an embarrassing silence, Dean scrambles to his feet. He tugs his jeans and boxers back into place, grimacing at the mess that inevitably follows getting dressed in such haste after a hook-up. He can’t bring himself to use the club’s cleaning supplies.

Cas strides over to his street clothes with way more poise than Dean. In a surprising show of modesty for a man who until three minutes ago had his hand on Dean’s cock, Cas turns away from Dean to dress.

If he were a better man, Dean might have averted his eyes. So sue him, he isn’t. Dean brazenly stares at Cas’s back wanting to memorise every line of the wing tattoos, the impressive v-taper from shoulder to waist, and the swell of his ass. This might be his last chance ever.

Too soon for Dean’s liking, they are both dressed, and Cas is ushering Dean out of the room and through to the backstage area.

“Thank you, Dean. I enjoyed your company tonight. Helped take the weight of the world off my shoulders for a few minutes. Here.”

Before he opens the door to show Dean out through the employee’s entrance, Cas proffers another scrap of paper.

Dean takes it without either thinking or looking at it. He folds it and stuffs it into his back pocket. With the patented Winchester cheeky grin and a wink, he tells Cas, “Funny how one beer and watching a couple of hot babes dance turned out. Thanks, Cas. You take care now.”

The door swings shut behind Dean. It’s only when he’s walked to the other end of the block to wait for a rideshare that he looks at what is on the paper Cas gave him. He has an idea, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He shouldn’t. What he should do is contact Bobby and tell him to send in whoever is in the area to deal with a family of shifters. But Dean can’t bring himself to do that. Not now that he’s tasted Cas.

He books his rideshare before he allows himself to look at the paper. When he does, he knows he’s screwed. Not only is there Cas’s cell number and a copy of his next week’s schedule at Brandi’s, but there is also a cheeky note scrawled in a barely legible cursive handwriting:

_That’s just a sample of what I can do with my feline flexibility. Want to see more of what a cat can do, Little Hunter? Give me a call._

While he’s waiting for his ride to arrive, Dean mulls over the note. Cas knows what Dean was? Does it change anything that has happened between them? The ‘Little Hunter’ moniker should raise every red flag known to hunter-kind, but Dean admits that there is something different about the connection between him and the shifter. If he were talking to Sammy, his brother would probably suggest some dumb shit like the two of the sharing a profound bond. Whatever it is, the feeling he’s had around Cas all night is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. There’s no way he could call hunters in on the shifter. What he is going to do is make damn sure he comes back to Brandi’s next week for another dance and see where things go with Cas from there.

Back at his apartment, Dean congratulates himself. He set out to forget the shitstorm that is his life. He didn’t quite manage to do that. What he did instead is realise that there is someone else who has it worse than him who is trying to make the best of it. The thought kind of puts things into perspective. It sheds a different light on the way he’s thought about monsters, well more specifically one shifter with striking blue eyes and a tattoo that makes Dean wish angels were a real thing so he could indulge his new-found wing kink. The very last thought Dean has before he turns out the light is weirdly comforting. What if he and Cas could make each other’s days and nights a little better together?

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was wondering, 'Closer' by NIN is a popular rock song among pole dancers and strippers of all genders despite the abusive sounding lyrics. My using it for this pic doesn't mean I condone behaviours mentioned in the song. The song Cas uses for the private dance is Voodoo by Godsmack - another one that appears often in lists of rock songs used at strip clubs.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed it, please hit the kudos button and leave a comment. All constructive comments welcome. It brightens my day when someone lets me know how they responded to my work and I do (eventually) respond to any comments.


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